


Tempering

by Domina



Series: The Dreampiercer [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, Child!Vivienne, Childhood Memories, Circle of Magi, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Grimdark, Kidnapping, Mages and Templars, Microaggressions, Minor Character Death, Not-so-micro-aggressions, Orlais, Ostwick, Past Character Death, People losing The Game, Real Mages of Montsimmard Circle, Templars, Templars (Dragon Age), The Chantry, Tons of Duke de Ghislain feels, Val Royeaux, Violence, Wycome, light fluff, more like grimdark with a dash of hope tossed in, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5202116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina/pseuds/Domina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some look at the Divine and see one of the greatest players of the Game. Others see her one of the strongest mages in Orlais, the fearsome leader that Circle mages desperately need. All regard her with a blend of fear and respect. But when she's alone, what does Vivienne truly see when she looks at herself? A survivor, it turns out. A survivor who's been through enough.</p>
<p>Because for people like Vivienne, happy endings are not handed to them - they are viciously seized, a prize for struggling and succeeding despite unfavorable odds. And as she begins to wage that war from the Grand Cathedral, she looks back on her journey to the Sunburst Throne. </p>
<p>A standalone prelude, of sorts, to <i>The Dreampiercer</i> - a series that explores the world after the events of Trespasser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempering

After hours of prayer and rituals that commenced at midnight, the final stage of the Divine's coronation began. From the highest heads of state to the lowest of beggars, scores of the faithful came from all corners of Thedas to witness the march to the Sunburst Throne. Perfumed smoke from the Chanters' swinging censers wafted into the cool air as they parted the crowd for the Divine.

"Most Holy," they intoned, "thus passes the glory of the world."

The woman known previously as Madame de Fer shivered slightly, but seemed at home leading the procession of clergywomen and men. Her gait was surefooted, yet careful. She held her head high, yet not high enough to suggest pride. Her plain white robes, glowing softly in the early morning light against her sepia brown skin, seemed to float away from her hands and feet. "Is it magic?" onlookers whispered. None could confirm. It would be hinted at regardless, given her former titles. All of which were shed when she cast them into the fire, names written on scrolls that had burned prettily in the dark.

"Most Holy, thus passes the glory of the world."

The march was supposed to symbolize the Divine shedding all of her attachments to the world. A Divine's eyes should be on the Maker; her clothes and face adorned without excess. Nor should she hunger for the other indulgences taken by those with power and influence.  The highborn congregants, meanwhile, feasted on the details of her appearance amongst themselves.

"How could she spend years at Court, then step outside without jewels and makeup?"

"Surely, she understood that bearing a staff during the procession would be looked upon poorly, as if we needed a reminder of what she was."

" _My,_  how odd her head looks when not graced by  _henin_!"

"And her hair. Is that why she shaved her head?"

"It is said that she started that trend, you know. But I can see why."

With narrowed eyes and covered mouths they giggled, despite reproachful glares from the Grand Clerics as they trailed behind the Divine-Elect. The pious would later say the hushed whispers seemed like prayers for the woman's failure, but the gossips were without shame. After all, the Maker gave them mouths so that they would speak. 

The woman ignored the looks of fear and suspicion. Carefully she trained her eyes on the pale marble steps into the Grand Cathedral, just thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight paces away. So too did she push aside the indiscreet noises of the transgressors: the Chanters' voices rung too loudly and full of conviction to be outdone by the wagging of idle tongues. Her golden staff, a tall slender rod capped by a wrought gold phoenix, clicked against the ground in time with her slippered steps. 

"Most Holy, thus passes the glory of the world."

And so it did. She decided to aim higher going forward.

***

The Cathedral was full even as the Divine-Elect passed through the main hall. She was grateful for the high vaulted ceiling; its painstakingly-painted motifs gave her something to look at other than people's faces.  They waited until she crossed the threshold into the main chamber before chanting passages from Transfigurations. Clergy members not in the procession stood rigidly on either side of the path to the Sunburst Throne, backs held straight by years of preparation. Some seemed to frown to hood their eyes from the light flooding in through Serault stained glass; they had been installed just in time for the coronation. The rich colors flickered upon the woman's robes as she passed. 

As she kept walking, the Divine-Elect could see that the major heads of state had already been positioned inside of the chamber. Quickly her eyes flitted across the crowd and found Empress Celene and her advisor Briala, standing to her left. King Alistair and Queen Anora of Ferelden stood on the other side, sullen and solemn respectively. She made note of the way that they seemed so far apart, even though their shoulders touched.

Count Artimus Clavarie I of Cumberland and Baroness Alia Pentaghast were also present, subtly pushing each other for the better view. Alia smiled brightly as she made eye contact with her; Artimus, not to be outdone, pressed his hands together and graciously lowered his head. It was obvious that they had each received her letter of condolences after King Markus' death. She would decide whose hand to hold later, after she'd heard their plans for Nevarra if they ascended to the Nevarran throne. 

Though she passed many other leaders as she counted her steps, she returned her gaze to the slowly-approaching Sunburst Throne. She controlled the ebb and flow of the Game's battles here. There would be plenty of opportunity to turn the tides later, when the Chanters' slow recitations did not make time itself inch by. The coronation festivities would become a battlefield among Thedosian powers, one where many struggles for governance would tie themselves up neatly - or not, if she pulled the right strings. 

It amused her that of all people, _she_ would decide the victors from the fray.

"...In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction," the Chanters sang. "The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next."

The heavy waves of burning incense threatened to shake the Divine-Elect's focus, but she continued to count her steps. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen steps away was a flaming iron bowl, coming sharply into view. She presumed the Clerics lit it from the fires of the Holy Brazier. It was said that a lowly chanter carried a torch, kindled using the same fire that consumed Andraste, all the way from the Temple of Sacred Ashes to the Cathedral. Her disciples would self-immolate among the flames there, holding black pearls beneath their tongues as they burned. Despite the legend, she saw no spirits among the brazier's flames as she walked around it. Not that she desired to find them there, either. Spirits or no, the heat pierced her robes all the same - but she refused to hasten her steps.

She stopped just before the Sunburst Throne. It towered over her, nearly thirty feet of mahogany and gold crested by the telltale symbol of Andraste. It was accompanied by two smaller thrones stationed on either side, which would remain empty until her first audience as Divine. Yet all five chairs looked heavy with history: the worn arms and faded paint spoke of surviving ages of conflict. The Divine-Elect found their persistence endearing, but would quietly make plans to have them restored.

The air hung heavily as the rest of the procession, then congregants, began to file into the chamber. The mage-turned-Divine smiled inwardly: though her back was turned, she was certain that the Orlesians would struggle incessantly amongst themselves for the best and most prestigious positions. Even in here -  _especially_  in here - the Game would be played before the eyes of the Maker. The Divine-Elect focused on the chants while she waited.

"...And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield-"

"Her foundation and her sword," she murmured along. She nodded slightly to High Chancellor Emeric, who slid into place while holding an upturned golden mitre. The positions normally assumed by the Left and Right Hands of the Divine remained empty: Leliana and Cassandra vacated their posts, citing their obligations to the Inquisitor. This was for the best: they were now tethered more to Iveani than the Sunburst Throne, and she would rather select her own people. She could see the pair quietly settling near the door as she turned to face the crowd.

Iveani Ashara Lavellan herself was also present, she knew, although likely in hooded robes. The Inquisitor did not like drawing attention to herself. She was also aware that some claimed her influence tainted the Divine's election, and would not give such claims credence. The Divine-Elect respected this. Although her sense of valor often won out over strategy, the Inquisitor was a competent Game player. She would make an effort to visit with Iveani later, where there wasn't an over-abundance of wicked eyes.

The Grand Clerics gradually made their way to the front of the chamber shortly after her administrative staff. Stone-faced Hazecha of the Anderfels, more comfortable in armor than in Cleric's robes; Matelda of Nevarra, whose eyes were sallow and dark; and Ursa and Bianca of Antiva, who could not be more polar opposites if they tried, began to settle into a circle around the brazier. She saw the others also, but took care not to look at their faces: one glance now could speak volumes. Their actions on this day would speak loudly enough.

***

The Chanters sang two more hymns while they stood near the Sunburst Throne. It became increasingly difficult for the Divine-Elect to conceal her irritation with how slowly the rite progressed; sweat was rapidly pooling beneath her robes, and beneath the hand that held her staff. The chamber was filled well beyond capacity, and the heat from the brazier before her was magnified by the presence of the censer- and torch-bearing Chanters. She was grateful that the doors to the throne room remained open, lest her eyes sting from the excess smoke.

When the last lines of the final passage faded away into silence, the Grand Clerics raised their heads high.

"Most Holy, we bear witness to your ascension," they chanted in unison. "With your right hand you recorded all your trespasses; with your left you cast them into the flames. Bring your hands through the fires of Our Lady, and find them cleansed."

The Divine-Elect lifted her arms at an angle to shift her sleeves. She passed her free hand through the fires first. Though the flames barely hurt as they licked her skin, each second was a testament to her iron will. The room buzzed with whispers when she raised it to present it unscathed. The staff felt colder as she switched hands to repeat the gesture. When both hands were successfully shown, she returned to her place. Something flickered in the eyes of several Grand Clerics, and began to smolder.

"Blessed you are among women, to have hands kissed by the Eternal Flame. We behold the glory of the Maker as in a mirror, and are transformed," they intoned.  "Praise to Him and His Mortal Bride. May Andraste's wisdom guide you as you sit atop the Sunburst Throne."

The Divine-Elect would not be spared deliberation here, either; she could neither hasten to the Sunburst Throne, nor move too slowly. Three, four, five steps and the Throne was hers; six, seven, eight seconds passed as she gracefully lowered herself into the sacred seat. She found it shockingly comfortable, though she refrained from indicating any pleasure. She took a deep breath as she raised her right hand for the next ritual. It hovered just above her lap, not high enough to be kissed without kneeling.

One by one, the Grand Clerics stepped forward to kiss her hand. As was customary, each woman would recite a passage from the Chant of Light to honor her. The passages selected were intended to reflect upon the woman, her past work, and the Cleric's hopes for her leadership.

The Divine-Elect should have taken it as an omen, then, that Grand Cleric Victoire went first. 

"Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me," Victoire said, grey eyes locked on hers. "I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me." She knelt with ease, but the kiss upon the Divine-Elect's hand was hard and cold.

Grand Cleric Marceline came next, as expected. Given the Divine-Elect's relationship with the late Duke de Ghislain, many believed that Marceline was one of her most staunch supporters within the Chantry. Those who would seek to discredit her right to lead often started there.

"Though I am flesh, your Light is ever present," Marceline projected brightly. "And those I have called, they remember, and they shall endure. I shall sing with them the Chant, and all will know we are Yours, and none shall stand before us." The Divine-Elect smiled subtly as the Cleric gently pressed her lips to her hand.

Grand Cleric Francesca of Starkhaven's verse was far less warm. "Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  _Foul and corrupt_ are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children." Even in the far reaches of the chamber, Francesca's emphasis on "foul and corrupt" had elicited a wave of whispers. The Divine-Elect could see a hard glint in her eye the cleric knelt, pecked her hand, and stepped back.

The next recitations went well: the Grand Clerics Matelda, Ursa and Bianca had not been personal friends of the woman on the Sunburst Throne, but had not objected to her candidacy outright. Their passages were kind and their kisses were soft. This was to be anticipated: Nevarra's standing in the Chantry had always been questionable, and even the Chantry representatives in Antiva knew the value of Divine favor. 

When none but the Fereldan Cleric remained, the Divine-Elect silently steeled herself. Grand Cleric Nessah, the late Elemena's successor, practically marched up to the Sunburst Throne. Her voice sounded like a cracked whip, all force and no tact.

"In the absence of light, shadows thrive."

The Divine held her breath as she waited for the rest of the passage. It never came: Nessah drew herself up tall and proud as the seconds passed, but said nothing more.

The tension in the air was palpable; even the nobles stopped whispering, and all stood in several heartbeats of complete silence. Nessah drew her lips into a thin unyielding line, just barely kissing the Divine-Elect's hand before quickly rising. This was her first major public event after taking Elemena's place, though it was obvious that she would continue to uphold the tradition of acting brashly. The Divine-Elect kept her expression blank. Nessah could not and  _would not_ force her hand today. So long as she appeared unmoved, Nessah would look the fool when she later received the fruits of her labor.

 In full.

***

The former Lady of Iron was grateful for the subsequent hour, filled with hymns from the Canticle of Andraste. The Chanters offered reprieve from the tumultuous segment with the Grand Clerics. It was common knowledge that Divines were elected by consensus; that some chose to publicly express their displeasure now could only mean that passionate dissent would follow. As the Divine-Elect watched the Grand Clerics and other clergy members, she envisioned the Inquisitor's war table in Skyhold. Some pieces, she realized, had declared themselves ready to be moved.

So when Revered Mothers Angeline and Evette brought forth the chest containing ornaments of her office, she was prepared. She armed herself with a knowing smile and a nod when Francesca and Nessah approached to bestow the crown and mantle. She swiftly leaned her staff against the Sunburst Throne as she rose. Nessah scowled as she yanked the mantle out of the chest; though none could hear, Francesca sniffed disdainfully as she took the crown. They _would_ attempt to take hold of her staff, to demonstrate that her power wasn't her own even though they feared it. But little did they know that once the Divine Mitre rested on her brow, their plots and machinations would be for naught.

"May the Maker keep you cloaked in light as you walk through the darkness." The words seemed like venom in Nessah's mouth. She practically dropped the mantle around the Divine-Elect's shoulders, as if touching her would burn her skin.

The Divine-Elect knew what came next, though none in the audience did not. Despite the weight of tradition bearing down on her, she refused to lower her head. Francesca visibly grit her teeth as they locked eyes. She tilted her head up ever-so-slightly: she dared the Cleric to object to her remaining fully upright. Tradition or no, _she would not bow_.

Grand Cleric Francesca huffed. "May Andraste grant you the full depth of her wisdom, as the world awaits your guidance," she said thinly. She hesitated for a moment as she marched forward with the Divine Mitre. The tall woman barely had to stretch to lower the crown upon the Divine-Elect's head. She enjoyed the way in which the Cleric cringed, also fearful of touching her skin.

It seemed like an eternity as the Divine-Elect waited for the Mitre to touch her brow. She was certain that Francesca was deliberately drawing it out, but counted the seconds nonetheless. The Chantry would be hers in five, four, three, two...

_I've won_. 

The crown was cool upon her forehead. While it sat heavily upon her head, her heart was impossibly light. She permitted a smile as she glided back to her seat and picked up her staff; let the world see that she was happy, and could not be hindered by their displeasure. The care she took in lowering herself into the Sunburst Throne was not for decorum this time - it was to relish the feeling that it was hers, _fully_ hers. Maker help anyone who even thought to snatch it away.

As she adjusted herself Grand Clerics spoke once more, united in voice.

"We behold, as in a mirror, a beacon amid the darkness. We seek to know her name as Andraste intended it."

High Chancellor Emeric skipped up the short steps with the golden mitre, which contained a fistful of sacred names written on pieces of parchment. The Divine-Elect gingerly placed a smooth hand into it, and her eyes fluttered closed. It was considered poor form to grasp at the papers for longer than a moment, so she removed a slip from mid-way into the mitre. Let it be said that despite the many ways in which she would change the Chantry, her performance of rituals was above reproach.

She looked upon the congregants as her fingers unfurled the parchment. Resignation joined suspicion and fear on their faces, but also awe. It was no longer a dream to them - a mage was fully-ordained and at the highest position in the Chantry, and they'd watched her ascend. She forced down a laugh as looked down and read her parchment's contents.

"Andraste would name me Victoria," she called out for all to hear. "Praise Our Lady, for I am born anew."

"Behold the Divine Victoria, Most Holy Among Us," everyone responded, their voices filling the throne room like thunder.  "Andraste guide her as she leads the faithful. May we find our way to the Maker's side with her light."

As the Chanters and congregants burst into a closing hymn, the Divine reflected upon the path that brought her to the Sunburst Throne. It had been long, full of trials that served to make her stronger in the end. She knew that it would not - _could_ not - end with the Sunburst Throne, and that there would be many challenges ahead. But she would transcend them in the end. She always did.

_Victoria_ , she mused. _Fr_ _om Tevene, meaning "conqueror, victor."_

_How fitting_.

Rumors quickly spread across Thedas that when Divine Victoria stood at the end of the coronation, every torch in the room began to sputter.


End file.
